


Be Me

by MGVR



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Angst other people, Blood, Despair, Episode 11, Gen, Ghosts, Hallucinations, Horror, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Kidnapping, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Poison, Restraints, Self-Mutilation, Serial Killer, Stabbing, Torture, Violence, Vomiting, Whump, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22417399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MGVR/pseuds/MGVR
Summary: Just a little more whump and angst for Episode 11.My crueler version of the story.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Gil Arroyo, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright & John Watkins, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & The Girl in the Box
Comments: 24
Kudos: 97





	Be Me

John Watkins didn't consider himself a troubled individual. He didn't consider himself a man that didn't know right from wrong. He was not unwanted or unloved. On the contrary, John Watkins was saner and stronger than all of the people he had ever met. He understood early on how to win the game, and he was smart enough to use it to his advantage. He was definitely saner and smarter and stronger than Malcolm Whitley. Or was it Malcolm Bright? That boy had a lot of problems. He was completely off track.

"Eye for an eye, boy," he said and looked down at the blade he had in his hand. It was covered in blood, painted black all the way to the handle. Playfully, he tossed it once in a swift movement catching it expertly in midair and examined it in the dim light. It was a light knife, perfect for skinning game.

Malcolm was lying at his feet, his face pale and clammy, white-knuckled hand clutching the wound, fingers drowning in dark red. He was at the sweet mercy of death. And John Watkins was death.

Unwittingly, John Watkins pressed the flat of the knife to his chin, mimicking the facial expression of a man deep in thought, replaying with obvious delight the moment the blade slid into Malcolm's side, his pale gaping eyes growing wider at the twist of the knife. John let himself savor the wave of arousal that image conjured, and absentmindedly licked his lips. Just like all those times before, the moment was already starting to slip away from him. The helplessness of Malcolm's position, sprawled on the ground, breath hitching in his throat was a sweet aftermath but could not compete with the pleasure he took from the actual moment. "You're evolving," Malcolm had said to him. He smirked. A primitive part of him wanted to thrust the knife into that boy again and again and again. Recreate that explosive moment of collision between them. But he was not one to surrender like that to a passion killing; he was too evolved for that. Plus, he had a plan. He wanted Malcolm's suffering to be longer, more painful – a masterpiece. He wanted Malcolm to understand.

"We are the same," he said and crouched at Malcolm's side, dipping a finger in the warm blood that was pooling beneath him, just the way his own blood had pooled on the ground all those years ago. "Hurts like a son of a bitch, doesn't it?" He whispered. Malcolm's glassy eyes moved sharply to his, divulging the terror he was feeling. He brushed his finger on Malcolm's cheek leaving a small smear of blood. Malcolm's breath hitched and he coughed, his right hand shaking violently clenching and unclenching. "These are trying times, Malcolm." He got up and made his way to the door "hope you'll survive, I'd really like that."

Survive.

Survive.

Survive.

Malcolm's mind was spiraling in an endless loop. His hand was shaking so badly it hurt. Time passed. He could feel the blood flowing freely, making way to cold numbness. From the darkness he could see, standing above him, a brown-haired girl, her mottled skin stretched on her sharp cheekbones and her white glazed eyes staring at him.  
Dead.

How long had she been here? He wandered through the haze. 

I was always here. She answered without moving her lips.

She moved around him with surprising grace. A broken ballerina. Able to magically fold into a wooden box.

Where is here? He wanted to ask.

With me. She said without moving her lips.

With ease, she lowered herself to lay next to him, her lifeless limbs rearranging into a familiar position. His own. Her face, a few inches from his, like a lover.  
"Be with me. Be me." She whispered letting her fetid breath engulf him. This was all too real. Could this be real? Was he sleeping?

"N…o," he heard himself mutter. His tongue was heavy in his mouth. "You are not real."

He struggled to change his own position, rolling his head to the other side. He didn't want to look at her. He didn't want to look like her.

The wound in his side was on fire, he was losing too much blood.

He heard her shift from behind him and shut his eyes with horror. His body's weakness was trapping him and the smell of her rotten flesh sipped into his nostrils as she leaned over his ear to whisper. He tried to struggle and wriggle away. But everything was so heavy. He could feel the tickle of her long brown hair over his face.  
He screamed.

He must have blacked out. Because he found himself waking up; slowly at first and then fast, as the pain and agony flooded him. The girl was gone. Shoved back into the most infested crevice of his mind. The blood loss was weakening his defenses, and his stress-filled brain was conjuring his private ghosts, making them dance before him, whisper nonsense in his ears, letting him know they are always there, waiting to claw their way to the surface. This was not good. He needs to stay sharp and awake, and he can't sleep. He simply can't.

He couldn't afford to slip into their kingdom, where he is powerless to stop them. "I'm bleeding too much. I have to stop it." He said and lifted his right hand over to his mangled side. The bleeding was not as intense as it was in the beginning and the wound was already starting to clot. He pushed himself into a sitting position with a grunt and stopped at the sudden dizziness that washed over him. His shirt felt sticky and stiff. He tugged at it, hissing involuntarily as the bloodied fabric pulled at the clotted parts, and yanked his shirt up to reveal the skin. Fresh blood was oozing sluggishly from the gash. He tore a piece of his tattered shirt and pressed it firmly to his side. Black spots danced before his eyes, and beyond them, a few shapeless silhouettes started to emerge.  
STAY AWAKE.  
He shook his head and got to his knees, head dangling low. It could have been so easy to just give up. To let those shapeless nightmares devour him until there was nothing left. Until he was dead like them, maybe plaguing someone else's night hours. Who will it be? Mom? Ansley? Maybe Gil? No. His father, he would pay a visit to his dear ol' dad. Inflict on him the terrors he had to endure since he was a child.  
"Oh, son," his father's familiar voice filled his head. "Don't be foolish."

He lifted his gaze to meet his father's ghostly form.

The surgeon was standing in his white prison clothes, disheveled and wild-eyed. He looked as rattled as Malcolm felt. An adequate representation of his own psyche, no doubt.

"Although it would make prison life more interesting to have you around every time I close my eyes."

"Why are you here?"

"Am I here?"

"No. You are in my head…"

"See? One mystery solved."

"Go away," Malcolm said in a defeated voice and sank back down into his semblance of a stupor.

"Come on now, Malcolm. I can't leave you like this, all moody. Let me cheer you up."

"Cheer me up?" anger sipped through his words. "It's your fault I'm in here."

"My fault?" the surgeon chuckled. "If you hadn't been so stubborn…"

"You let that maniac into our lives…our home…"

"No need to point fingers. I think we both have our fair share of the blame."

"Oh, no. This is on you."

"Oh, I wouldn't give myself all the credit for that one. You also helped."

Malcolm could feel the weight of the knife in his small hand. A distant memory of that night was trying to push itself out ever since Watkins showed him the scar. A bead of sweat rolled down over his eyes. "Why did I stab him?" 

"Aren't you the psychological conundrum…" the surgeon chuckled and moved toward Malcolm. He stopped just above him.

"Do you want to survive?" he asked.

Did he want to survive? A part of him screamed yes. The part that belonged to the world of the living. To Malcolm Bright. But that part was weak now and slowly disappearing. He was no longer in the realm of the living. He was in twilight, limbo, where such decisions do not seem so cut and dry. Shadows moved about the room, in the corner of his eye.

"Do you want to live, Malcolm? Or do you want to be like her…?" The surgeon said and pointed toward a dark corner of the room. A large wooden box was resting in a dark corner, where no light could reach it.

'No,' he mouthed, shaking his head. "No," he whispered the only acceptable answer. "It's all about the girl in the box, isn't it?" he looked up to his father. But his father was no longer there.

"There was no girl in the box." His father's figure was now that of Gil's.  
"There was! That is why we were in that cabin in the first place. I must have tried to save her…"

Gil looked at him, hands across his chest, eyes full of worry, and a little bit of pity. He hated that look Gil sometimes had. He didn't want Gil to pity him. To look at him as nothing but a broken man. As his mother would look at him.

"I am right" he turned his gaze away with annoyance "I have to remember what happened. That is the only way to solve this. She is the key to everything."

"Stop it with the girl in the box already." Watkins's voice sounded from behind him. So close, he had to wonder how long the man had been there with him. He jumped in surprise and turned to face him. Was he real? Was he another one of his hallucinations? God, he was slipping…

"It was self-defense," Watkins said and slowly lowered himself to sit against the wall, knife still clutched in his hand. "The chloroform wasn't working as well as it once did. You were starting to remember things."

Malcolm tugged at the metal restraints on his wrists, his mind going into full profiler mode, hungry for every piece of information that could get him the hell out of this.  
"We brought you on that camping trip to take care of you for good. Your father was going to kill you".

Watkins's voice had a tinge of elation. This was exciting for him, the prospect of causing Malcolm more grief. Malcolm swallowed hard. Suddenly he was very aware of how fast and erratic the beating of his heart was, the dull constant ache that breathing brought, and the continuous pain in his muscles.

"My father is a lot of things but he would never kill his own son."

The surgeon was a psychopath killer, but never towards him. Never towards their family. It did not fit the profile.

Watkins' smile had a menacing quality. "Oh, he had every intention to. He just lost his nerve when we got up there".

"So, you took things into your own hands."

"Someone had to do what your father failed to do," he smiled. "Only I didn't count on how similar you both are. How quickly you'd turn into a predator. You attacked me like a feral animal. That's when I knew…"

"I am not a killer."

"Oh, Malcolm. But you are. And I am going to prove it to you." 

The slash was just as quick and surprising as the stab. Watkins never took his eyes off of Malcolm's, and Malcolm wasn't even sure what had happened until his mind started registering the new pain that blossom across his chest. He gasped in surprise and stumbled backward, falling hard to the floor, crawling away in an attempt to put as much distance between him and Watkins as the chain would allow.

"Oh, don't worry. It's just a small one." Watkins wiped the fresh blood from the blade across his pants. "It's the poison you should worry about."

"Y… you poisoned me?" Malcolm's thoughts were racing. Jumbled.

Breathe, he reminded himself, just breathe, and took in a shaky breath.  
"That is the only way you'll learn."

"Learn what?!" he screamed, hand hovering over the new wound. "I am not a killer! And nothing you will do or say will turn me into one!"

Watkins smiled. "We'll see," he said and made his way out of the room. "We'll see."

It took longer than he expected to feel the effects of whatever was on the blade. But his body was usually full of drugs, so his resistance to any substance was higher than that of the average Joe. The room was swimming, in-and-out, and he was throwing up in the most painful way he ever experienced. At first, he managed to drag himself to the corner of the room as he realized what was about to happen. But once it started, any movement caused such unbelievable pain, it was impossible to move any further. He must have seemed so pathetic. Lying pale and shivering in his own vomit. Eyes closed, shallow breaths, thoughts spiraling.

"You don't look so good, Malcolm my boy." A spectral voice said. He tried not to listen, tried to make his thoughts his own, and not let his ghosts use his momentary weakness. "Come to me," the voice of a girl hovered somewhere to his right. "be me." She kept saying over and over and over.

"Open your eyes," another voice said from somewhere above him. But he focused on breathing. Staying calm. "Don't listen to them…" another female voice filled the room.  
"You need to survive. You must live." She said with conviction.

"I'm not a killer…" he mumbled under his breath like a mantra.

"Oh, my child. What have they done to you…" his mother's voice. "Poor child. I told you to leave it alone. There was no girl in the box."

"You are a killer." Someone said.

"Don't kill me…" a female voice begged him.

"Be me." The girl whispered in his ear, and her deathly stench momentarily overpowered the protruding stench of the vomit.

"No, no, no…" Malcolm whispered under his breath in a voice that sounded desperate even to him. "Leave me alone!" he screamed at the cacophony of voices that flooded the room and curled into a small ball. The tug of the chain that was usually comforting – a semblance of control over his night terrors – was now burning a hole through his wrist. He was trapped and couldn't see any way out.

"I said, open your eyes!" the hit to his back took him by surprise. It was not a kick. Just a small shove. But as Watkins' work boot came into contact with his over sensitive skin, he couldn’t help but howl in pain. This made Watkins laugh.

"I see the poison is finally kicking in. I was starting to worry. You're a strong one." He crouched next to Malcolm's writhing form and grabbed him by the throat. Malcolm screamed in agony at the touch. Watkins's fingers were like fire. He tried to feebly pry them open, but he was so weak. He didn't realize his eyes were still closed until Watkins pried one of them free. Although he remembered the room had been dim, as soon as his eyelid was forced open, it was like an ice pick had been shoved into it and straight into his brain, and he was screaming and struggling so bad he could hear Watkins curse him as he let go. "Definitely a strong one," Watkins chuckled. "Most would be dead by now, and you still have the strength to try to fend me off." Malcolm could hear the man circling him like a shark. He was crying now.  
Shamelessly. If his father had asked him now whether he wanted to live or die, he would have answered very differently. "We are going to have so much fun together. The surgeon's son…what do you think they'll call you once the killing starts?"

Malcolm didn't reply. He couldn’t reply even if he wanted to.

"You know why I poisoned you, Malcolm?"

Watkins circled him again.

"It was your father's idea, really. He was always into this whole pharmaceutical stuff. Always experimenting…"

Malcolm could barely hear him from beyond his own crying.

"I was an experiment, you see?" he said matter of fact. "He wanted to experiment on me. But I was stronger than he anticipated. Just like you Malcolm…he underestimated you as well…we both did. But not anymore."

He slowly lowered himself to Malcolm and lightly grabbed his shirt.

"Stop fighting it boy. It's in your blood…you are your father's son. And I will succeed, where he failed"

Malcolm weakly shook his head, releasing a few hot tears that burned down his cheeks like acid.

"Oh, but you'll have to. Either way, they will die…"

"They?" Malcolm managed.

"Of course. The one thing holding you back…the one thing your father failed to do."  
"No. No. No." he whispered. "I'm not a killer…I'm not a killer…I'm not a killer…I'm not a killer…I'm not a killer…I'm not a killer…I'm not a killer…"

"You are a survivor Malcolm. Killing is just part of your survival. Your evolution. The faster you'll embrace it…the better you'll feel…trust me."

He was throwing up again now. Violently. There was nothing left in his stomach, but he could feel warm liquid coating his lips as he gasped for air.

Was he a survivor? Will he survive? He wanted to surrender.

"Do you want to survive, Malcolm?" his father's voice drilled into his brain.  
"Kill me!" he screamed. 

Something touched his arm, rolling up the sleeve. He couldn't struggle anymore, so he didn't. A prick, and then something cold spread in the crook of his arm.

He woke up vomiting again. At first, he wasn't aware that the retching sounds were coming from him. He opened his eyes to see strings of blood stretching from his mouth to the floor forming a sizeable red pool near his hands. The light wasn't painful anymore, but it didn't matter, everything else was. How could he still be alive? Can someone be in so much pain and still be alive?

"Kill me…" someone said. Was it him?

"Kill me…please…" someone had been begging.

"How pathetic," his father yanked his head up from his hair. "I should have killed you back in the cabin."

"Kill me…" Malcolm pleaded.

"It's too late now, isn't it?" the surgeon said and released Malcolm's hair. "It's too late now, and now it's up to you to save them."

"Them?" Malcolm said hoarsely.

"Yes, them. Didn't you listen?"

The door opened and Watkins stepped inside in a hurry. "You're looking better this morning," he said looking Malcolm over. Malcolm's hands and clothes were covered in blood and vomit, his eyes red, and where his skin was not bloodied, it was colorless, almost transparent. If he wasn't moving, he would surely have been mistaken for dead.

"How long…" he tried to say, but his throat was dry making him fall into a fit of coughs. "Where…" he tried again but lost his train of thought halfway through.  
"We'll have plenty of time for questions later. It is time."

"Time…"Malcolm repeated and instead of complying, lowered himself to the ground and pressed his burning forehead to the cold floor. "What time is it?"

"It's time for you to be who you really are." Watkins grabbed at his hair just like his father did a few minutes earlier and yanked his head up, making him look at him.  
"Where…?," he asked again.

"Don't worry. You won't have to do much. I'll be in charge of the best parts."  
Malcolm felt dizzy. What was happening? Where is he? What is going on?

"What are you talking about?" Malcolm managed, struggling to stay conscious.

"Why… your family of course. Again, I have to do what you and your father can't." He smirked. "Can't you hear them? Walking up there? Completely unaware…"

Malcolm looked up at the wooden ceiling. They were under the house, weren't they? They had been under the house all this time.

"Y...you're going to kill' em…"

"Of course. This is the only way to make you understand. I'm doing you a favor."  
"P…lease. D..on't…"

"Shhh, Malcolm, my boy. Don't you worry. You'll thank me later."

Watkins got up and walked over to a wooden stand with heavy-duty tools – a large ax, a crowbar, and a heavy hammer.

"Watkins, wait…" Malcolm begged.

But the junkyard killer pulled out the ax with a smile. 

He was lying on his back staring when it hit him. The junkyard killer was after his family, and he was here, helpless to do anything about it. Above him, a dark stain was growing. Something was leaking through the ceiling into the room. A single red drop plopped and hit his forehead.

"Get up, Malcolm," his father's voice commanded him. "Get up!" Gil's voice urged him on. "He is going to kill us!" His mother's voice pleaded. "Save us!" Ansley screamed at him.

"I can't," the words hitched in his throat. He was no longer crying. There were no tears left. And he was exhausted beyond belief.

The momentary surge of energy from his previous panic was no longer there. He felt numb. At the corner of the room, just beyond the reach of the light, he could see the wooden box. The lid was open, dark, and inviting. He felt himself float above the ground. Rising up toward the ceiling, drifting closer and closer to the box.  
"They are all dead," a voice whispered, "You failed them."

He was hovering over the box looking down. Its darkness was complete. The bottom was swallowed in shadows, invisible, pulling at him like a black hole. A delicate hand rose from within. Patches of rotten skin clinging to exposed flesh. It waved him closer. "Join me. Be me"

"No!" he wanted to scream. But his hand rose to meet the girl's.  
"Give in, Malcolm. Join me."

"Do you want to live?" his father asked.

"Fight! Wake up!" Gil yelled at him.

"WAKE UP!"

He screamed and rose up violently. The ceiling above him was unstained, and the room was quiet. The box was gone.

"We are running out of time son." His father's voice filled his head. "It's not too late yet."

Defeated, he looked down at his chained hands.

"It's a blunt procedure. But you know what you have to do."

"I…, I don't understand," Malcolm said.

"There is not much to understand son. The diameter of the restraint is 3 inches. The width of your hand… is 5 inches." 

Malcolm swallowed hard. From the corner of his eye, he saw the heavy hammer, its metal head gleaming under the wall lamp.

"So, all you have to do is make your hand 3 inches."

That's insane. His own inner voice tried to reason against him. He was in so much pain as it was; who's to say this wasn't the thing to push him over the edge. To kill him.

"It's just math," his father's assertive and calculating voice determined.  
It's just math. His life for their life. No brainer.

He got to his feet and stumbled toward the hammer. It was heavier than he thought it would, but he managed to pull it out of the stand, letting the entire stand fall forward after it. The lonely crowbar rolled across the floor toward him, with a rattle.

He dropped back to his knees, and absentmindedly wiped a hand over his face. It came back red. He must be looking awful. His mother would disapprove he thought and lowered his hand to the floor and spread his fingers apart. He tried to make his mind as blank as he could. One thought could make him regret it. And it was no longer an option.

He steadied his ax-clutching hand and took a deep breath.

White-hot pain exploded behind his eyes. And he forgot who he was, where he was, and why he was in so much pain. He was screaming, screaming. And he couldn't stop.

"It's just math," his father's voice grounded him again. He looked down at his broken hand. The bone was shattered, and the skin was starting to receive a darker unhealthy color. He had to take his hand out of the restraint before it began to swell. He didn't look, just wriggled his hand out focusing on keeping awake, and pressed the disfigured limb to his bloodied chest once it was out. He was free.

He got up and made his way to the door, grabbing the discarded crowbar as he went.   
The secret basement under the house was much larger than he imagined. It was as big as his whole apartment and had several rooms and corridors. A crashing sound drew his attention toward an opening in the wall. A closed panel had been ripped open, and beyond it was his mother's house. HIS house.

He hurried to the opening and pushed himself across.

The house was dark, and a faint light flooded the rooms through the large windows. He tried the nearest light switch. Nothing.

It couldn’t have been morning, the sunlight entered in the wrong direction. Was he too late? Watkins said…

A scream sounded from the upstairs bedroom. His mother.

He ran to the stairs, crowbar clutched in his right hand, his left hand pressed across his chest. "Watkins!!" He yelled and tried to ignore the sudden dizzy spell.

It worked. The upstairs sounds of struggle stopped for a second, and he could hear movement. Watkins was coming for him.

"What are you doing here, Malcolm?" Watkins smiled at him from across the corridor.  
"How did you get out?"

"Math." Malcolm spat out and swung the crowbar toward Watkins' head missing it by mere inches.

Watkins laughed manically and ran towards Malcolm ramming into him. The crowbar flew from Malcolm's hand and rolled across the floor. He felt like he had been hit by a train and found himself sprawled on the floor underneath the larger man, the ax between them pressing painfully on his wrecked hand. He lost himself for a minute. Everything went black and then reemerged, dotted and surreal.

"Don’t make me kill you, Malcolm." Watkins's face was red with anger. "It would be such a shame…"

With sheer will, Malcolm managed to get his healthy hand out and with a cry of pain and despair punched Watkins' face once, twice, again, again, again. Until the man was no longer on top of him. The ax rested between them, and they both made a grab for it. Malcolm was there first, and managed to grab the wooden handle and yank it away. The ax flew from his hand down the staircase and landed with a bang on the floor below. Watkins growled in frustration and anger and got to his feet faster than Malcolm's mind could register, kicking him across the face. Pain spread across his jaw as fresh blood started filling his mouth. He spat and struggled for air. Before he could regain his senses, Watkins grabbed him under his arms and started dragging him toward the inner bedroom. He only realized what was happening when he heard his mother's desperate cry. "No! Malcolm!" she yelled with horror.

"I'm glad you managed to get out, Malcolm. It's better this way. You'll be able to enjoy the killing in a much more…pure form."

His mother was crying. He had never seen his mother cry. She was so strong all the time. So much stronger than him. Why was she crying now?

"Mom…" he tried to say, to ask her what was wrong. But only a sigh escaped his mouth.

"Now, you wait right here," he said to Malcolm as he placed him against the far wall. "I'll go grab my ax, and we can get this show back on the road."

The next thing he knew was the image of his mother trying to rouse him quickly, to drag him into the other room. "No…" he wanted to tell here, "go back inside…He's coming…" but all he managed was a small grunt. He looked up at her with pleading eyes. She was covered in blood. Her beautiful shirt, and pants, stained. Is she hurt? Did he hurt her? "Ainsley!" she was screaming with panic. "Help me! Oh, god…"  
"Well, well…look who's out." Watkins was standing at the door, ax in hand, smiling.  
Jessica's hold over Malcolm tightened and she pulled out what appeared to be a pair of scissors and waved them between Malcolm and Watkins.

"What do you think you're gonna do with that, little lady" Watkins smirked amused at the whole situation.

"Get away from us!" His mother yelled above him still trying to drag him back, away from Watkins.

Still laughing, Watkins smacked Jessica across the face making her drop both Malcolm and the scissors to the floor.

"Get up, Malcolm!" his father's voice said. And he obeyed. "Let me help you."  
Malcolm acted without thinking. He was beyond reasoning. Nothing made any sense anymore. He grabbed the scissors, and with speed, he didn't even know he had left, jumped at Watkins and started stabbing. He didn't even realize he was doing it until he heard a familiar voice from the door – "Stop, Malcolm! He's dead, he's dead." Gil was standing at the doorway, his gun drawn, holding back a S.W.A.T team from entering the room. "Lower the scissors, son" Malcolm looked at the scissors in his hand, sleek with blood. He opened his hand and let them drop over the body. Watkins's abdomen was hacked to pieces, lacerated to oblivion. He looked to his side, his mother was gone. Where did she go?

The sun was already down. The house was immersed in complete darkness. "That’s it. Good boy." 

Before Gil could stop them, the S.W.A.T swarmed into the room, taking Malcolm down to the floor, cuffing his hands behind his back. "Stop! Don't hurt him!" Gil's raging voice filled the small room, but the others didn't seem to care. They pressed Malcolm roughly to the floor, ignoring his desperate screams of agony as they touched his open wounds and handled his injured hand. "I said stop!" Gil yelled and pushed one of the officers off of him. "Can't you see he's hurt? Get off him!"  
Malcolm's eyes started fluttering closed with the shock and exhaustion. Was it time to give up yet? He wanted to ask Gil.

"Malcolm?" Gil's panicked voice came from above him. "Malcolm, can you hear me?"  
"Get the EMTs in here, you idiot!" the man sounded in a real panic.

"Mom…" Malcolm whispered. No one seemed to notice or care. "Mom!" he said more out loud urgency in his voice.

"Jessica is fine. We have her and Ainsley downstairs. They're fine."

Malcolm just nodded. Gil was here, his mother and Ainsly are fine. Watkins could never hurt them again. "Malcolm…?" he heard Gil's desperate voice one more time before everything went black.  
WAKE UP!

He screamed and violently thrashed off the bed taking the ECG machine and the other bedside devices with him to the floor. Where is he?

"Malcolm! Calm down! You're okay! You're safe!" Someone was standing next to his bed. They were scared.

"Help!" someone was screaming.

An alarm was going off somewhere, making his head hurt, and people were swarming into the room. He could see hands grabbing at him, blocking his escape. He was trapped. "Nooooo…" he yelled and crashed through them. He had to escape.  
"Don't hurt him! Please! Don't hurt my son!"

His mother…his mother was here.

"Mom?" he couldn’t see her, was she okay? were they hurting her?

"Mom!" he screamed. She was crying again. He could hear her crying. 

"Stand back, Ma'am." Someone was holding her back as two large men were pinning him down to the floor, and a woman in pink scrubs was trying to give him something.   
"No! Don't put this in me!" he tried to fend her off.

"Get him on the bed," the nurse said, and the two men grabbed him like he was nothing and dropped him unceremoniously on the bed holding his flailing limbs down so the nurse could give him a shot. "Be careful!" his mother was wailing, burying her face to the chest of someone by her side - Gil.

The world started tilting sideways. They must have given him something strong, he thought just before everything became too liquid.

Long minutes passed. The room was swimming in and out of focus. His mom was holding his hand now, familiar restraints making sure the incident will not repeat. She was brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. Her eyes red-rimmed.  
"Don't worry Malcolm, you're going to be okay."

Gil was standing beside her. Worry all over his face. "You did good son. You can rest now".

He shifted his head to the other side of the bed, toward the third man in the room.  
"Yes. I knew you had it in you, Malcolm" the junkyard killer smiled, and Malcolm closed his eyes.


End file.
